


Cara y alma

by obbel



Category: Latin American Celebrities RPF, Reggaeton RPF
Genre: Colombia - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, Homecoming, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, The other kind of coming, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20287039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbel/pseuds/obbel
Summary: Llane gives him an exaggerated once over, then turns to Balvin. “There’s a naked man in your bed. And it’s not me.”“So get naked and get in my bed.”





	Cara y alma

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I write is frivolous and self-indulgent, but this really takes the cake. Let's call it a pornographic love letter to Colombia. Title from Carlos Vives' "El orgullo de mi patria" because what is subtlety

“Look,” Maluma says, and his voice betrays him. He’s about to spout off some _ bullshit. _ “I’m just saying. Miami is so much better.”

“What the...” Balvin trails off, shaking his head in disgust. He narrows his eyes at Maluma. “That’s treason, man. You’re a bad Colombian. I can’t believe you met Duque. I can’t believe he didn’t take away your citizenship.”

“Duque likes me. Because I’m a philanthropist. And a good Colombian. I met _ La Selección." _

“No good Colombian has ever said that Miami is better than Cartagena. You can’t even compare them,” Balvin says, still shaking his head. “And I also met _ La Selección. _So did he. Back me up here.” He nudges Llane lying next to him, face down on his beach towel.

Llane rolls over and sits up, squinting, first at the sun and then at Balvin. He puts his sunglasses back on.

“I never met _ La Selección. _Just Falcao.” Llane brushes some sand off his arm. “He’s right though, you’re a bad Colombian, disgraceful. Shame on you.”

“Fuck you, fuck you both.” Maluma stands up, slowly. His arms reach over his head as he stretches, stomach long and taut as he leans to the right and to the left. Balvin rolls his eyes at the spectacle. He pokes Maluma in the side, and Maluma’s right arm comes down quickly to protect himself. Then he shoves his middle finger in Balvin’s face.

“Fuck you, and you,” he says again, before running off towards the water. Balvin and Llane watch him dive into the surf.

“Is that the plan for later?” Balvin yells after him, but Maluma’s too far away to hear him. Llane goes back to sunbathing, belly up this time. He rests his head on his hands, elbows sticking out akimbo.

—

“They don’t have this in Miami,” Llane points out, later, when they’re eating lunch in what used to be someone’s house. They’re crammed in a corner table with just enough space for three bowls of seafood stew. The waitresses, all little old ladies who speak with thick _ caribeño _accents, maneuver expertly through the crowded room.

“They probably do,” Maluma says. “I bet it’s even air conditioned.”

“But here they have the most beautiful waitresses in the world,” Llane says to one of the passing _ abuelitas. _ She smiles at him.

_ “Algo más, mi niño?” _

_ “No, gracias señora,” _ Llane says and blows her a kiss.

“You’re wrong, and you need to accept that,” Balvin says.

_ “El filósofo,” _ Maluma says mockingly, but Balvin ignores him.

“You only like Miami because you’ve been away from home too long.”

“You know this is not home, right? This is Cartagena.”

“Let’s go home, then,” Llane says. He waves over his favorite waitress and pays for the food over protests from the other two. _ “Ya, ya, cálmense._ I’m unemployed, not dispossessed.”

“What, go home like right now?” Maluma asks. Balvin just laughs.

“Why not?” Llane shrugs. “Do you have anything better to do?”

“I mean,” Maluma starts but doesn’t finish.

“Then let’s go,” Llane says and ushers them outside. They’re not even out of the restaurant yet and another couple has already taken their places.

“Let’s go,” Llane says again. “We’ll use my car.” 

“You want to drive?” Maluma asks incredulously, but Llane is already shoving him inside.

“You can sit in the front.”

It’s Llane’s car, but Balvin is the one who drives them. Eleven hours straight, and he won’t let anyone else help, either. He waves them off, saying he hasn’t driven in too long and he misses it.

Llane falls asleep in the back, legs stretched out over all three seats and head resting cozily on a pillow he must keep specifically for that purpose. Maluma realizes that his offer to sit up front was not as charitable as Llane had made it out to be. 

“Look at that _ hijueputa,” _ he scoffs.

Balvin ignores his suggestion and keeps his eyes on the road.

Maluma flips around in his seat, leans over and taps Llane. _ “Ey, huevón, _ where’d you get that pillow?”

Llane ignores him, pretending to be asleep, so Maluma climbs over the console and sits on top of him.

_ “Uy, gordo,” _ Llane groans. “Move.”

Maluma stretches his arms out obnoxiously, arches his back. “It’s so spacious back here. You have so much room.”

Llane pushes him, but there’s nowhere for him to go. Maluma’s legs are too long, and there isn’t really _ that _much room in the back. Llane sighs, then rearranges himself so that he’s sitting sideways, his back against the door. Maluma sits in between his legs, leaning against his chest. He smiles contentedly. Victory.

“If you fall out of the car, I’m not stopping,” Balvin says from the front. He eyes them through the rear view mirror.

“It’s locked,” Maluma says.

“You don’t know that. You didn’t check.”

“It’s fine,” Llane says.

Balvin turns the child safety locks on.

“Really?” Maluma rolls his eyes.

“I told you, I’m not stopping.”

He does, though, first to buy mangoes from a street vendor and second for a military checkpoint set up along the highway. Balvin lowers the music, and Maluma and Llane move to sit on opposite sides of the car. The soldier checks Balvin’s license, then waves them on through with a wink. 

The hours pass quickly enough. Llane eventually climbs into the front seat, leaving Maluma snoozing on the pillow. He turns the radio up and sings along, loudly, to Shakira.

_ “Ay, amor, me duele tanto.” _ He elbows Balvin in the side.

Balvin stares at him, unconvinced. “I’m not going to be Alejandro Sanz.”

Llane, not discouraged in the least, sings both parts, even louder than before. Balvin lets him finish his performance, then turns the volume down under the guise of not waking up Maluma, although they both know he could sleep through a hurricane.

“Do you miss the band?” Balvin asks quietly.

“Of course,” Llane says, fidgeting. He pulls his right leg up onto the seat, letting it tip over so his knee knocks against the door as they roll over the bumps in the road. “They were my life for, what, ten years?”

“Mm,” Balvin says noncommittally.

“But that’s over now. It was time to move on.”

Balvin doesn’t have a reply to that. He just rests his hand on Llane’s other leg, lets his thumb draw small circles on his skin. They stay like that until Balvin is forced to downshift, the tractor trailer in front of them breaking suddenly. He swears, then darts into the other lane. He just misses the oncoming traffic as he merges back in place.

“You’re out of practice,” Llane says mildly.

“It was fine.”

“If you say so.”

—

Balvin pulls into his driveway in the wee hours of the morning, and the outside lights turn on automatically. It wasn’t a conscious choice to come here, but autopilot had taken over the last leg of the trip, and Llane had fallen asleep, too, so no one said where he was supposed to be going anyway.

“Hey,” Balvin says. “Wake up. We’re here.” 

“Where are we?” Maluma asks groggily from the back.

“Home.”

They head inside. Enzo has been barking since they arrived, and he runs up to them as soon as the door opens. Balvin drops his things and crouches down to let Enzo jump up, paws on Balvin’s shoulders as he licks his face.

“You miss me, Enzo? You miss me, buddy?” Balvin pets him, and his tail wags furiously, making a _ swish swish swish _ noise against the floor. 

Maluma scratches behind Enzo’s ears, and Enzo turns to lick his hand, too. Balvin stands up, brushing the fur off his shirt and dropping Enzo back on four paws. He sniffs Maluma, then Llane, tail wagging the whole time. Inspection complete, he trots off to whatever important things he was doing before.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Balvin announces. “There’s probably food somewhere if you’re hungry.”

“Got it, thanks,” Llane says from the sofa. He has Balvin’s TV on, flipping through channels. Maluma joins him, lying down with his head in Llane’s lap. Llane runs his fingers idly through Maluma’s hair, switching the remote to his other hand. He still hasn’t picked anything to watch.

“Get your feet off my table. Or else,” Balvin threatens, but there’s no follow up. He leaves them in the living room and disappears down the hall.

“I’m gonna…” Maluma trails off, gesturing towards the empty space where Balvin was. He sits up, glancing back at Llane.

Llane gives his blessing. Or something like that. Mostly he’s engrossed in a rerun of _ Betty la fea. _ Maluma squeezes Llane’s leg, still propped up on the coffee table, and heads for Balvin’s room.

His bedroom looks the same as it always does, everything stored away neatly out of sight. Maluma resists the urge to open the dresser drawers and see if Balvin just threw it all inside haphazardly, or if someone else took the time to fold and organize. Instead he crosses quickly through the room and into the bathroom.

Balvin has an ostentatiously large shower for someone who lives alone. It’s almost a whole room in itself. Maluma had made fun of him the first time he visited, but he came to realize pretty quickly the benefits of having room for _activities._

Maluma opens the shower door. Balvin has his head tipped back, eyes closed, and the water is running over his face. 

“Close the door,” Balvin says, not bothering to open his eyes. “You’re letting all the heat escape.”

“It’s about to get extra hot.”

“No,” Balvin says. “Get out. Send Juan David.”

Maluma laughs. “He’s preoccupied with _ La fea. _ You’re stuck with Juan Luis.”

“Hurry up then.”

Maluma does what he’s told, strips down and gets in the shower, closing the door behind him. Balvin grabs him and pushes him under the water, dumping a healthy amount of shampoo on his head and rubbing it into his hair. Maluma scowls, flinging the suds out of his face.

When he opens his eyes, Balvin is right in front of him. He shrugs at Maluma, then kisses him as if to make up for the sneak attack. Maluma’s lips part easily, and he sucks Balvin’s tongue into his mouth, plays with it, teases it. He’s getting Balvin worked up, he can tell, but Balvin won’t escalate further. He leaves his hands on Maluma’s waist, seemingly content to make out lazily as the water cascades over them.

Maluma is not so restrained. Without breaking the kiss, he grabs Balvin’s wrists, pinning his hands behind his back. Maluma walks Balvin backwards, carefully, flipping him around to trap him against the other side of the shower. He presses up against him, grinning at the way Balvin moans, low and needy.

Maluma holds one of Balvin’s arms above his head. The other slides helplessly against the wet glass. Maluma kisses the nape of Balvin’s neck, lets his teeth scrape over the goosebumps there. He runs a hand down Balvin’s side, playing with the water still stuck to his skin.

Maluma backs off for a moment, relishing in the sight. He’s barely touched him, and already Balvin is hard and wet, dick straining against the shower wall, leaving a mess because the water doesn’t reach this far.

Balvin reaches his free hand backwards to touch Maluma, more of a desperate flapping motion than anything else. 

“Come on,” he groans. “Come on.”

Maluma grinds against him. He lets Balvin’s arm go free, and Balvin places both hands on the wall. Maluma kisses his way down Balvin’s spine, runs his tongue over the curve of his ass, then bites down. Gently, but he still leaves a mark.

“Stay there,” Maluma says, and Balvin whines but doesn’t move.

Maluma hurriedly grabs a towel on his way out and just about smacks into Llane coming into the bedroom.

“Cool,” Llane says. “I see that you’ve started without me.” He stares pointedly between Maluma’s legs.

“I was coming to get you,” Maluma says, draping the towel over his shoulders. 

“I bet you were coming.”

Llane grabs the towel and throws it on the floor defiantly. He crosses his arms over his chest. Maluma laughs, picks the towel up and swats at Llane with it. 

“Go get him out of the shower,” Maluma says. He towels off and arranges himself attractively on Balvin’s bed. He hears the water stop, and then Bavin and Llane appear shortly after.

_ “Mira, el _fucking playboy,” Balvin says, eyeing Maluma spread out on top of the covers.

Llane gives him an exaggerated once over, then turns to Balvin. “There’s a naked man in your bed. And it’s not me.”

“So get naked and get in my bed.”

Llane doesn’t need telling twice. He climbs on top of Maluma and kisses him before working his way down, lower, lower, lower. He lies on his stomach, big hands bracketing Maluma’s hips, keeping him from moving around too much. Balvin watches Llane lick the head of Maluma’s cock, tongue swirling around in circles, before the whole thing disappears down his throat. Maluma groans, arches his back and runs a hand over Llane’s shoulder.

Balvin stays where he is, caught up in the way Llane sucks dick. There’s a rhythm to it, a gracefulness that seems out of place for such an obscene act. Llane looks so good like this. Balvin watches the lines of his neck tense, the muscles in his back shift, as he moves up and down, controlling the pace. He’s playing with Maluma, who moans loudly, uncaringly, hand thrown over his head in total abandon. Balvin watches his eyes roll back, his eyelashes flutter.

Maluma’s going to come soon. He strains against where Llane has him pinned down, even though he’s trying to control himself. Llane nods, unable to really speak, and Maluma grabs the back of his head. He fucks Llane’s throat, hips snapping in short, quick thrusts. He’s loud, all sorts of half-finished sentences tumbling out of his mouth. Balvin catches “oh, fuck yes, _me quiero venir así”_ and “baby, _qué rico”_ and _ “uy, ya, papi”. _

Balvin studies his face, sees the way his eyes are closed, eyebrows knitted together in concentration. Then suddenly Maluma opens them, staring at Balvin staring at him. “For you,” he says, and his eyes close again as he comes in Llane’s mouth.

Llane swallows, swipes the back of his hand across his lips.

“You like the show?” He’s still looking at Maluma, deflated like a balloon from yesterday’s party. Llane trails his fingers over Maluma’s inner thigh, and Maluma startles, oversensitive. He groans.

Balvin doesn’t have words for either one of them. He’s frozen in place, even as his dick tells him to move, do something.

“Come here,” Maluma says. “Stop being creepy.”

“I’m not being creepy.” 

“Debatable.”

Llane laughs and grabs Balvin’s arm. _ “Ven,_ I wanna fuck you.”

That jolts him out of his haze. Balvin looks at Llane who’s still grinning. 

“What, really?”

“No, I’m joking.” Llane gives him an incredulous look.

Maluma sits up, shaking his head and laughing. Balvin glares at him, but Llane diverts his attention. He stands up, grabs Balvin and pushes him down onto the bed next to Maluma.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, leaving a trail of kisses down Balvin’s chest. “I wanna see you come for me, just like he did.” Llane’s eyes dart to Maluma, who’s watching intently. “I want to feel how you can take it all.” Llane strokes himself, once. Balvin is the one who groans.

“Fuck,” he says, and Llane runs a steadying hand down his side. He sticks the other one out, and Maluma dutifully passes him a bottle of lube from the drawer of Balvin’s night stand. Llane pops the top, and an overwhelmingly sugary scent fills the room.

“Is that yours?” Balvin asks, twisting to look at Maluma. “Because it’s not mine. You keep your candy bullshit at my house?”

“It’s actually strawberry. That’s a fruit.” Maluma quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Unbelievable,” Balvin says, and then he turns back to Llane. “I don’t want to get fucked by a strawberry.”

Llane looks at the two of them and then at the ceiling. He mutters something that invokes the Lord before disappearing off to the foyer where they left their bags. He comes back with an acceptably unscented personal lubrication product.

“If you don’t want to do this, you can just say,” he says, looking at Balvin. Balvin glances back at him.

“No, I mean, yes, I want to. Fuck me.”

Maybe he didn’t mean it as a challenge, but Llane takes it that way. He looks down at Balvin again, double checking. Balvin nods, and Llane drips the lube all over his fingers. He presses them slowly inside Balvin, who shudders, tensing up.

_ “Relájate, parce,” _ Llane says, rubbing his other hand in soothing circles over Balvin’s hip. Llane cuts his eyes to Maluma again, then jerks his head in Balvin’s direction.

Maluma takes Balvin’s face in his hands and kisses him, long and slow with lots of tongue. Llane feels Balvin relax, his muscles loosen up as he groans into Maluma’s mouth. Llane opens him up, fingers him until he’s panting and whining, hips canting upwards.

“So gorgeous like this,” Llane says quietly, looking at both of them. Maluma grins at him. Balvin just shifts his hips again. Llane slicks up his cock, making a mess of Balvin’s good sheets. He lines himself up, stealing Balvin’s attention back from Maluma. “Baby,” he says. “You good?”

Balvin makes a face at the name, but he nods. Llane fights the urge to ungraciously fuck his way inside. Instead, he goes slowly, achingly slowly, watching Balvin’s face for any signs of pain. 

“Move, _ carajo.” _

Llane obeys, but he still goes slow. He’s pretty sure Balvin hasn’t done this since the last time they were together, and he doesn’t want to be hasty.

He can tell Balvin’s getting impatient, though. Because he says it out loud.

“Can you tag him in or something?” Balvin gestures at Maluma. “I’m—”

Maluma waggles his eyebrows, and Llane figures that’s a good enough cue as any. He cuts Balvin off mid sentence by thrusting his hips, for real this time. Balvin makes an embarrassing noise, and Llane takes the victory quite humbly, yes indeed. He winks at Balvin.

“Fuck you,” Balvin says, but he’s struggling to speak. As much as Llane would like to make a comment about fucking and who it really pertains to, he figures it’s better to make his point through actions instead. He rolls his hips, slowly at first, then speeds up, building momentum and trying to find the right angle to make Balvin squawk again.

Balvin doesn’t give that to him because he’s fucking stubborn. But Llane does get him to moan, loudly, and turn to Maluma. Maluma grabs Balvin’s bicep, grounding him, Llane thinks. Maluma kisses him again, letting his hands run down Balvin’s body and starts jerking him off, following Llane’s rhythm. Balvin’s eyes shut, and his mouth falls open slightly.

Llane focuses on watching Balvin and Maluma, so much so that the fact that he’s close almost takes him by surprise. There’s a wave getting ready to crash over him, but he restrains himself. The way Balvin is groaning and pushing back to meet his thrusts lets Llane know that he doesn’t have long to wait, though. 

“Hey,” Llane says, and Balvin’s eyes open to meet his gaze. Llane’s also struggling to form coherent words, but he forces himself to talk through it. “I love this. You look so good like this. So beautiful.”

“God,” Balvin says, more moan than distinguishable syllables. Maluma speeds up, working him harder, faster. “Fuck, I’m gonna.”

Llane doesn’t interrupt, just lets himself enjoy the view. He fucks Balvin, trying to angle his hips just right, and watches as Balvin’s faces tenses up and a steady chant of “oh, oh, oh” is the only sound he can manage. 

Balvin comes all over Maluma’s hand, and Llane follows close behind him. The bed is wrecked, but none of them have the energy to move or clean up. They fall asleep a sticky mess on top of the sheets, curled around each other in a way that isn’t exactly comfortable but is comforting to a degree that no one minds a limb falling asleep or an accidental kick in the side.

—

Balvin is the first one awake, up at five am even without his alarm clock. He slept maybe a couple hours at best, but that’s a problem to be dealt with later. He showers and turns on the coffee pot, walks out onto the porch and watches the sunrise. He doesn’t make his usual Instagram post. He just enjoys the view. Enzo comes and sits next to him, and Balvin absentmindedly pets his ears.

Llane’s the second one up, stumbling into the kitchen around seven, and Maluma follows him not too long after. Balvin feeds Enzo, then heats up three arepas on the stove, setting plates down at the countertop when they’re ready.

“You eat these still?” Llane asks, mouth full. “I thought you were mister chicken and vegetables.” He sneaks a piece of arepa to Enzo. Balvin pretends not to see.

“Not for breakfast, _ huevón.” _

Maluma doesn’t interject, too busy mainlining the mug of coffee he poured himself before even saying good morning. They eat in comfortable silence, only the sounds of chewing and the occasional slurp and the swish of Enzo’s tail as he begs for more clandestine bites. 

“It’s good to be back,” Maluma says finally, downing the remainder of his first coffee and starting on the second. “You were right, it’s been too long.”

“What was that?” Llane asks, cupping one hand around his ear. “Who was right?”

Maluma waves him off, but he’s smiling. “Shut up,” he says. Balvin smiles back, and Llane does too, and for a moment they just stand around grinning at each other, happy to be home.


End file.
